


a hand to lay on your open palm

by peterdonaldson



Category: Lovely Little Losers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 09:23:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5370110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterdonaldson/pseuds/peterdonaldson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sonnet.<br/>Peter has written him a sonnet.<br/>He hasn’t moved since the video ended, hasn’t done anything but stare at the boxes of recommended videos that are hovering on the screen in front of him.<br/>Peter has written him a <i>sonnet</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a hand to lay on your open palm

**Author's Note:**

> Because Tuesday is too far away, and I can't wait that long to find out how Balthazar feels about the sonnet. I don't think any of us can.
> 
> Written in 2 hours on not much sleep, so I apologise if it seems rushed or out of character in any way!
> 
> Title is from 'Of Angels And Angles' by The Decemberists.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](azirphales.tumblr.com) if you want to say hello.

A sonnet.

Peter has written him a sonnet.

He hasn’t moved since the video ended, hasn’t done anything but stare at the boxes of recommended videos that are hovering on the screen in front of him.

Peter has written him a _sonnet_.

The funny thing is, he knows straight away that he was in the room on so many of the days that Peter was working on it. He had known Peter was writing it for uni, had known he was taking special care on this particular project, had just assumed it was part of an effort to get his grades back up. This sonnet, this beautifully crafted poem, these words – it had been inches away from him at times. On the dining table, on the sofa, he’s pretty sure Peter even worked on it in his bedroom at one point. Had sat at Balthazar’s desk and scribbled, while Balthazar himself had sat on his bed and plucked at the strings of a ukulele and hummed quietly.

The first time he’d seen Peter working on this sonnet had been… it had been _weeks ago_.

Had it – had it been…

He’s almost certain it had been. Yes.

It had been before they’d recorded Stay.

He sits up a bit, and picks up his phone, and looks at it.

Then he puts it back into his pocket and gets up and walks to the door, shaking his head, greeting Jaques with a small smile as he bounds up to him. Not today, he thinks.

-

He watches the sonnet again the next morning, after the delivery of a selection of gifts and the argument with Bea and Meg that had followed. The two have since barricaded themselves in the room that they’ve been sharing here and he can faintly hear their indignant voices as they continue the discussion that had begun once Beatrice had realised what her package contained – and more importantly, the apology it was lacking. Kit had gone for a walk and asked Balthazar if he’d like to join him, but the others didn’t seem to know about the sonnet yet and he hadn’t been in the mood to bring it up with everyone already feeling like this. He has a feeling that Vegan Fred has seen it; the small, slightly sad smile on his face at breakfast conveying everything unsaid – he’s not sure if that makes him feel better or worse, because he really likes Fred and the last thing any of them need right now is more complications. This has been difficult enough already. Still is much too difficult.

He thinks about the party while he watches the video again, all those months ago, when Balthazar had asked him to go outside with him and taken his hand and his veins had sparked with electricity with every step they’d taken, every golden, exhilarating moment of it. That feeling had lasted less than a minute, one single all-consuming minute before Bea had grabbed Peter’s arm and asked “hey Pedro, um, can we talk?” and the feeling had turned to one of deflation as Peter had walked down the hallway, walked away, and that moment had not come back with him. It feels like they’d hit pause then, somehow, and been living in a bizarre limbo ever since – dancing around each other, brushing dangerously close but never reclaiming that one minute. Never daring to let it come back. Peter had tried to recreate it once, had tried and it had gone so horribly wrong, and the only time the moment has felt anything like close has been those rare moments when their hands have brushed. Running lines and lingering for just a moment too long; tangling fingers under the façade of teaching Peter ukulele chords; the backs of hands just barely touching as they sat far too close together on the sofa; more times than he can count.

He loves Peter’s hands, has watched them write this very sonnet without even knowing it, and feels his own fingers twitch subconsciously at the thought of intertwining with Peter’s again. He thinks of taking that stupid moment, still utterly static and hanging heavy in the air between them, and bringing it back to life, and he knows that they could _do that_ if one of them would just take the jump and end the dance and join their hands again. He feels like he’s known this since the night of the party, but it also feels like something he’s been consciously avoiding, and he’s so _sick of this_. Sick of waiting four years for a moment that lasted a minute before freezing in time and sick of waiting another year for it to end its stasis. For one of them to end it.

The video is nearly at its end now and Peter is looking into the camera, his eyes so sure and so bright.

“Since saucy jacks so happy are in this, give them thy fingers, and me thy lips to kiss.”

He smiles and turns off the camera, and Balthazar laughs out loud because Peter still doesn’t get it. His hands belong to Peter, have always belonged to Peter along with every part of him, and he would give his fingers and his lips and his entire self without a second thought if he had ever once been certain that the two of them were on the same page. Which they never have been, not since that night as that moment of perfect understanding had ended. He reads the video description again and his hand wanders to his phone and he almost calls, almost. But Peter is right. This is a conversation better to be had in person.

-

Bea and Meg and Kit have uploaded a video, according to Vegan Fred. And judging by the look on Vegan Fred’s face, it’s not a good video. Balthazar watches it on a tablet in the kitchen with Jaques on his lap when the girls are out and Fred is trialling a new recipe for Boyet’s at the work surface just across the room, and he loves Bea and Meg to death but he hasn’t been this angry with either of them for as long as he can remember. And the worst part is he can see their point, completely understands that the flat have done an all-round shit job at apologising, but all he can think as he sits there is that Peter was the one person in that flat who didn’t owe anybody anything and went to the greatest pains and is now probably going to suffer the worst for it, because he still hasn’t fully recovered from the last time Bea unleashed her anger on him in full force.

He doesn’t think Bea and Meg have watched the flat’s most recent videos. Kit might have done, but he’s so diplomatic and wants to keep things offline as much as possible and, actually no, Balthazar is angry with him too because reading that message out really wasn’t okay. He doesn’t understand Bea sometimes, loves her but doesn’t understand her, because why would anyone go to such lengths to be so cruel as a reaction to being hurt when it’s clear to anyone looking at the situation objectively that it’s the opposite of what’s needed to mend an issue like this? Well. He supposes the lack of objectivity may actually, in this case, be the main problem. It’s not like he can talk.

Still, however justified this video may be, it’s made things so much more difficult for everyone and he can feel his recaptured moment slipping further out of his grasp with every second that passes. He reaches for his phone in his pocket, then puts it back, and is about to walk out of the kitchen and into Fred’s music room (because of course Fred Boyet, heir to a vast vegan empire, has an extremely well-equipped and no doubt very expensive music room) when he stops at the door, because he’s doing it again, isn’t he? He’s putting off this conversation again and again and waiting for Peter to come to him when Peter has already put it all on the line and suffered the consequences for it. He’s waiting for Peter to make the next move, but Peter has made so many moves and reached out his hand so many times and this time a video isn’t going to cut it. The internet can live without this conversation.

He grabs his wallet and Vegan Fred throws an earnest, dough-caked thumbs up his way at the look on his face and he walks out of the front door and begins to head down the pavement.

-

When he arrives at the flat, Peter is sitting on the steps just outside, his copy of Faustus in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. It’s not a particularly warm day and the wind means that the flapping of the pages must be making it impossible to actually read anything on them, but Peter appears to be engrossed in the play anyway. He’s muttering under his breath – reading along, Balthazar supposes – and doesn’t notice Balthazar’s approach until he’s within touching distance.

“Jesus Christ!”

He almost drops the coffee in shock, and leaps to his feet as their eyes meet.

“Balth! Oh my god, I – hi, sorry I didn’t see – hi. Hi.”

They stand there, and Balthazar notices the red rims of Peter’s eyes, giving away the obvious fact that he’s been crying.

“Balthazar. Balth, I’m – I’m so, so sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking at all, it was a stupid _stupid_ thing to do and I realise that and” – Peter takes a deep breath – “Look. I just needed us to be on the same page for once, however you feel. That’s all I wanted, I promise. I didn’t expect anything from you, I wasn’t anticipating you to be drooling over it or whatever it was Meg said in that video, I just wanted to talk and if you’re happy at Vegan Fred’s then you should stay there! You should do what makes you happiest, always, and I’m so sorry for fucking everything up again and ruining – ruining whatever this is, and – and I’m not trying to guilt you or anything, oh my god, I’m not trying to guilt you, I just haven’t talked about this yet really because Ben’s been crying a lot and I think Freddie has been too and we’ve all been avoiding each other really and everything’s so massively fucked up and I miss you so much and I just want to be your friend again, Balth, fucking hell, I didn’t expect to see you again this soon and I’m _sorry_ – “

His voice falters as Balthazar takes the cup of cold coffee from his hand and puts it down on the ground, the china clinking gently against the concrete. When he stands back up, Peter is looking at him, and Balthazar can feel the static of their long-suffering moment hovering between them like it’s a tangible thing. But when it comes down to it, it turns out that this pause, lingering in limbo for so long, is in reality almost unbearably fragile, and Balthazar feels it shatter into a million pieces as he reaches out and takes Peter’s hand in his.

The pause is gone, and it could be a year ago at the party for all they’ve moved forward in that time.

“So,” says Balthazar, and his voice is a lot steadier than he’d thought it would be. “We’re outside. Alone. Finally.”

Peter’s eyes are locked on his and the static has been replaced by an electric tension.

“Do you mind if I…?” Balthazar says, almost whispers, and all it takes is the look in Peter’s eyes for him to move forward and catch his lips with his own.

That golden electricity is back in his veins, and Peter drops the copy of Faustus to grip Balthazar’s waist with the hand that’s not currently clutching his for dear life. It’s gentle and it’s so tender and Balthazar feels like he’s had the wind knocked out of him.

They pull back after a moment, and Peter’s eyes find his straight away.

“I think we are,” says Balthazar, “I think we are on the same page, now.”

“I think we are too,” says Peter, and he’s only slightly breathless, “But I’d like to be sure, if that’s okay. I know that you know where I stand, I couldn’t have made it any more obvious, but I – I still don’t know for certain what you _want_ , Balth.”

Balthazar takes Peter’s other hand is his, and he can feel how smooth the skin of his fingers is – in stark contrast to the callouses that years of guitar-playing have given Balthazar.

“Remember when I wrote ‘An Ode’ last year?” he asks.

Something flashes in Peter’s eyes, and they’re kissing again, and this time there’s no reservation or uncertainty between them. The air is still heavy, but it’s heavy with something else now, and Balthazar drags a hand free to run through Peter’s beautiful hair. He doesn’t fail to notice the hitch in Peter’s breath at that, and they both smile at the same time, kissing through it. The electric feeling is flooding Balthazar’s entire body, shooting through his veins and along capillaries and lifting him up and god, he wouldn’t change this for anything, wouldn’t somehow travel back in time and do this at the party even if it meant undoing all of the misunderstandings and awful communication of this year because without this year, who knows who they’d be as individuals. Wellington has changed them, of course it has, but it’s changed _them_ too – the collective noun that is Peter-and-Balth as well as the individuals that they are. Would either of them truly have been ready for this last year? He supposes they’ll never know, but that’s not what matters any more. What matters is that he loves Peter and Peter loves him and they’ve finally _told_ each other this simple thing, if not in as many words. That’s for another moment, he thinks, another moment that the camera will never get to see. Some things are private and some things are for them alone and this moment right here is for them alone and always will be and Peter pulls him closer and Balthazar thinks God, he has him, has his fingers and lips and everything in between, everything belongs to Peter. He gives it all. Unreservedly and finally without fear, he gives Peter everything he asked for in his sonnet and more. And speaking of –

They pull apart for breath, and Peter rests his head on Balthazar’s shoulder.

“At some point we are going to talk about that sonnet and the fact that you never told me that you’re on a par with Christopher fucking Marlowe when it comes to poetry, Pete.”

Peter laughs.

“Seriously, have you ever had anything published, because that was honestly - ”

“I have a feeling this is a conversation that Ben should be present for, I have to say.” Peter chuckles, and then moves back. Their hands are still linked tightly. “Will you come inside and see them? They’ve missed you, they’ve missed everyone, and there are still a lot of things that need to be said, I think.”

Balthazar nods. “It was never going to be permanent, you know. I really did just need some space.”

He rubs the back of Peter’s hand with his thumb and Peter closes his eyes for the briefest of moments.

“Come on, then. Inside. I’ll make us some coffee.”

“Coffee made with real milk, thank god,” says Balthazar, and they walk up the rest of the stairs to the door together, and they head inside together, and they don’t let go of each other's hands once.


End file.
